


Someone Who Knows How To Ride

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Drunk Harry, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Humiliation, Lapdance, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 23:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10501875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Harry gives Louis a lap dance. Or, at least, hetriesto.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, the lovely Sweariwouldnt requested a lap dance fic a little while ago. I wrote up 1k words or so just as a fun little teaser, but last night I needed a break from the longer pieces I'm working on so I decided to finish this one up! I'm sorry it's not EXACTLY a lap dance fic...for some reason I just COULDN'T imagine Harry actually giving a sexy lap dance...he's all legs and absurdity and like most things I write where they're in an established relationship, it devolved into Louis giving orders and Harry getting wrecked. Hope it still pushes some buttons for everyone! 
> 
> I imagined it taking place during Where We Are tour because Harry is in a sleeveless plaid at one point, but it could be flexible! They're not as baby as I usually make them though, so sometime after UAN at least. 
> 
> Thank you ALWAYS to Hurdy Gurdy for breaking from the other stuff I have her editing to crank this one out so our friend could read it on her flight today! You're my rock in this fandom and I don't know what I'd do without you to change every single time I mis type the word "who's" lmao. Also, thank you to sweariwouldnt for the great prompt in the first place! Enjoy friends!

Harry stumbles into their room with a champagne flute and an entire unpeeled orange in one hand and some kind of dreadful American beer in the other. Louis, who only just stepped out of the shower, raises an eyebrow at him. “Posh,” he says, gesturing at the collection in Harry’s hands. “Are you gonna make some kind of…orange fizzy-awful cocktail?” 

“No, m’gonna set all this down, then m’gonna come over there and kiss you,” Harry slurs, bending unsteadily at the knees to crouch and deposit his orange and two beverages _on the carpet_ , of all places. He’s quite drunk. The flute is tilted precariously, and he at least has the good sense to realize that there are better and sturdier surfaces to put something so delicate and half-full. He picks the flute back up and wobbles into the en suite.

Louis hears the clink of glass on the counter and the unmistakable sound of a thoroughly inebriated Harry struggling out of his clothes. Something in Louis’s chest swells painfully, his lungs or perhaps his heart, and he realizes for the two millionth time in the last three years that no matter what bullshit they have to endure or lies they have to tell, it’ll always be worth it in the end because he’s _so fucking in love_ with Harry Styles, and most people…they don’t even get to dream of a love like that. 

He follows Harry into the bathroom and finds him tangled up in his shirt, a plaid flannel with the sleeves cut off that always makes him look like he’s masquerading as some kind of truck-stop drifter kid looking for trouble in all the wrong places. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t also infuriatingly sexy. Louis grins and helps him out of it. “What about that kiss? I think I was promised a kiss.” 

When Harry tilts his head to catch Louis’s mouth, it’s sloppy and wet, and he tastes like ten different kinds of booze, only two of which are champagne and beer. There’s the bitter tang of citrus under all of it, and Louis wonders what it says about him that he would kiss Harry through every flavor and every layer, no matter how awful or misplaced, to reach the boy underneath. 

Harry deepens it, whimpers, twists around, and gets his hands all over Louis’s chest, which is still fever-hot and damp from the shower, little runaway droplets of water from his hair sliding down his neck as Harry opens his mouth over it, sucking at his pulse. “You’re wearing…you’re only in a towel. S’not fair.” 

“It’s perfectly fair, M’all yours, towel or no. Isn’t that fair?” Louis offers, snuffling into Harry’s hair, which smells like product, stage makeup, cigarette smoke, and other people’s perfume. Too many layers, and he wants to get him in the shower, scrub him down, and mark him up, make him smell like Louis’s shampoo, Louis’s spit, Louis’s come. “You smell like a party, love. That’s what’s actually not fair.” 

“Totally fair, and it’s because,” Harry says very seriously, looking up with a glint in his still somewhat hazy eyes, “I _am_ a party.” 

“I see,” Louis murmurs, letting Harry back him up because he think’s he’s going to push him out of the bathroom and into their sprawling hotel bed, but instead Harry steers and deposits him directly down, so that he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid. It’s cold on his bare ass, so he yelps, but Harry is drunk and single-minded and doesn’t care, ridding Louis of his towel with a dramatic flourish and tossing it to the side before clambering gracelessly down onto his lap. He has a cheeky, triumphant grin on his face, and Louis is torn between wanting to bite his dimple and getting stern with him.

“There are far sexier places for you to get me naked than the _loo_ ,” Louis grumbles, threading a hand into Harry’s hair and tugging sharply in warning. “Or do I need to put you to bed?”

“No, no, no,” Harry whispers, face softening, the mischief in his eyes sweetening into pleading, into pliancy. “I just…it’s just that I want you here. Want to get off in your lap, been thinking about it all night, your thighs,” he mumbles, starting to grind against Louis in subtle, shifting motions. He’s in nothing but his torn black skinnies and boots, the waistband of his jeans digging into him enough that the soft swells of flesh on either side of his hips are even more pronounced, and Louis would have to be _inhuman_ to resist grabbing them, squeezing them. 

“You can get off on my thighs _in bed_ ,” Louis reminds him, but he’s sitting back, leaning into the tank of the toilet and gazing up at Harry and his wrecked hair, his obscene flush. He looks so good, and he’s all hungry and desperate in the shameless way he gets when he’s drunk or been edged for hours. Louis kind of wants to see where this will go, let Harry do whatever he wants because rarely does he take charge--or at least pretend to take charge--like this. “Look at that stripper hip roll,” he observes as Harry bucks up against him, nearly setting them both off balance. “Are you gonna give me a lap dance, Harold?” 

He’s only joking, but Harry freezes, letting out a low, strangled whimper, and Louis can _see_ his cock twitch in his stupid-tight pants, can see it because he’s looking, head bent to stare between Harry’s thick, bitable thighs. “Do you want me to?” Harry asks, letting go of his steel grip on Louis’s shoulders just enough to unbutton his jeans, release the pressure a little. Lap dances from Harry are usually a joke, something he does when he’s being an absurd cheeky little shit or trying to gross the other boys out on the bus, an exaggerated, lewd performance that he giggles his way through. But Louis can _see_ he’s turned on, that something about Louis’s suggestion, or perhaps the fact that it _was_ Louis’s suggestion, has gotten him all hot and bothered. He slides a hand down Harry’s back, feeling the muscles twitch, all of Harry tuned into him, waiting for an answer. 

Louis licks his lips, pauses, and tilts his head back like he’s thinking about it, only because he likes to make Harry wait. “Sure,” he replies after an eternity, ducking to hide a grin in Harry’s sweat-damp neck, breathing him in. Harry whimpers again, rocking against Louis, already finding a rhythm, moving slowly, and getting pretty with his motion, like Louis’s already watching. “But,” Louis says, tugging at Harry’s hair again, feeling him tense up as he hisses at the sting, “ _only_ if you let me take you to bed. M’not gonna let you give me a sexy dance while I sit on the fucking _toilet_ , mate,” he says, swatting Harry’s thigh with his free hand. “Up,” he orders. 

Harry grins and stands, swaying. 

They end up with Louis sprawled naked in one of the room’s posh, modern sort of chairs, with Harry perched triumphantly on top of him. Louis supposes it’s a compromise: it’s not the bed, but at least it’s not the _loo_. Harry has already begun a slow grind, shifting his hips deliberately against Louis’s and whimpering each time his hard cock digs into the seam of his unbuttoned jeans, probably roughly enough to hurt a little. Louis could get his hand in his pants and pull him out to relieve the pressure if he wanted to, watch the head of his cock get red and shiny with precum as Harry works himself closer and closer to the edge. He knows Harry likes the constraint, though, likes being trapped, desperate in his clothes, while Louis is calm and still and in charge. “This isn’t much of a lap dance, love, you aren’t performing,” he chides, sliding his palm idly up the tense, flexing plane of Harry’s thigh, watching his quads flicker and ripple beneath Louis’s touch. “You’re just humping me. S’pretty, but it’s also false advertising,” he explains, digging his nails into the curve of Harry’s ass, watching him cry out and buck helplessly into the air. “I was promised a dance.” 

Harry settles back onto Louis’s lap, head cocked and lower lip pushed out in a pout. “You don’t like my technique.” 

Louis snorts. “I didn’t say that! It just isn’t a lap dance...I mean, isn’t there supposed to be music? And, like, some kind of strip tease? Are you gonna give me a lap dance wearing your _socks_?” he asks, raising his eyebrows incredulously. 

In spite of himself, the corner of Harry’s mouth quirks up into an involuntary smile, and he twists in Louis’s grip, knees braced on either side of his thighs so that he can reach behind himself and snatch his mobile off the table. He’s drunk, heavy, and about ten different kinds of uncoordinated, and Louis’s glad he’s so attuned to and well researched in the ways Harry moves because it’s only his fierce grip and extensive knowledge of these things that keep Harry from toppling off him and splitting his head open. “Oi, baby. Careful,” he murmurs as Harry settles smugly against him, half-pouting, half-grinning down at his mobile as he opens Spotify. It’s very cute, and Louis just sits back and watches him, thumbing over the soft bits at his hips, the indentations between the segments of muted, toned stomach muscle. 

“M’getting music because you said it wasn’t a lap dance if there wasn’t music,” he explains before grinning devilishly, selecting a song while he beams at Louis, both of his dimples in full force, which is always an alarming thing. 

In seconds, ABBA’s _Take a Chance on Me_ is blaring through his phone’s speakers, and Harry is doubled over in riotous laughter for a moment before he sits up, rocking back and forth as he punches the air, which is one of his favorite dance moves but isn’t necessarily a lap-dance move. Louis tries to roll his eyes, but he’s sort of laughing, too; he can’t _help it_ , Harry’s so goofy and charming and lovely in every way, and he doesn’t even _care_ if he gets a lap dance or not because all he truly wants is his boy on his lap, under his hands. Trying to please him in whatever way he can, following orders because he _wants_ to, regardless of what the order is, what it contains. Louis bites his bottom lip, trying to control his smile as he gives Harry a firm, resounding smack on his thigh. “You are such a _child_ , gimme that,” he snaps, feigning exasperation as Harry giggles helplessly against his chest, offering his mobile. “You aren’ being very good right now,” he says then, and _that_ sobers Harry up right away. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, thumbing over Louis’s nipple apologetically. 

Louis tangles a hand in his hair reassuringly, wincing because it kind of hurts to be in this position and to scroll one-handedly through Harry’s music, but he’s been in worse positions for sex, so he can stand it. “I’m picking the song,” he tells Harry, even though he has absolutely nothing in mind; he’s never received or given a lap dance in his entire life, and he has no idea what a customary lap-dance soundtrack is. He settles on one of their usual sex mixes, scrolling through to find Ginuwine’s _Pony_. Self-evident and also relevant, in his humble opinion. 

“Ohhh, fitting, nice choice,” Harry says, voice vibrating against Louis’s sternum, deep and low. The feeling goes straight to Louis’s dick, which is half-hard and twitching in the heat between their bodies. He might be taking the piss, but that in and of itself turns him on because he loves seeing Harry squirm, loves knowing he’s feeling embarrassment, shame. He rubs his hand down Harry’s back before squeezing his ass firmly. 

“What are you waiting for? Take your clothes off for me, love. Make it sexy,” he tells him, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat, stuck on a ragged inhalation as he stands up unsteadily, shaking his hair out, rubbing his hands up his torso self-consciously. 

Louis sits back and takes his prick in hand loosely, thumbing over the tip to tease himself while he waits for Harry, eyes climbing up his body. His lovely long legs, his plump thighs, the laurels inked onto the swell of his stomach, framing where Louis is supposed to _be_ , everything that is his, always and forever. He sighs, and Harry sort of sways on the spot, hooking his thumbs into his waistband and rolling his hips. 

They’re about a minute into the song when Harry finally, _finally_ gets his fucking jeans and pants off, and even then he only does it when he gives up trying to be hot halfway through and just struggles out of them, nearly toppling in the process. When he rights himself, he’s still hard, pitiful and leaking, probably because Louis has been mildly insulting him and laughing the whole time, which always gets Harry hot, so desperate to please. “You should give it up, baby, you’re too drunk,” Louis snickers, shaking his head and palming up his length, which is fully hard now, flushed and thick against his stomach. 

“M’naked now, though, just lemme try it naked,” Harry begs, pouting again, and Louis makes a firm _tsk_ sound with his tongue. 

“Stop making that face, love, strippers don’t pout,” Louis says, and Harry immediately corrects himself, mouth going slack just like Louis told him to. It’s _lovely_ ; Louis adores the way Harry just _does_ what he says, takes his command every time, no matter how much he’s faking it, throwing orders around simply because they’re orders, and he wants to see Harry follow them. 

“Okay,” Harry murmurs obediently, dropping to his knees in a single fluid motion and crawling across the carpet like a dog, hair falling down from its quiff and going in ten different directions, like he’s already been fucked. It’s perfect, like every other thing about him. 

Louis is delighted. He _knew_ Harry wouldn’t be able to do this, that he’s too drunk and just altogether too dorky a human being to ever give an honest-to-god _lap dance_. Harry’s terribly sexy, so sexy that Louis can hardly believe he’s real sometimes, can hardly stand just lying beside him after they’ve both come because he’s frustrated that he has to _wait_ to get hard before he can fuck him to pieces again. But as sexy as Harry is, he’s never been the type to _act_ sexy in bed. He’s submissive and easily overwhelmed; he drops into a hazy, flushed, mindless sort of space during sex, a place where he forgets what he looks like, how pretty he is, and just completely loses himself in being Louis’s. He doesn’t _perform_ sexy, he just _is_ sexy--sexy because he’s wrecked, turned on, turned out. He bites his lips until they’re swollen and red, he tilts his hips and arches his back so Louis can fuck him deeper, not because he’s _thinking_ about how gorgeous his mouth is or how good he looks bent in half and split open around Louis’s cock. He does it because he can’t help it; there’s no performance, no self-awareness, and that, _that_ is the sexiest fucking thing about it. 

Louis suspects that the only time Harry can _truly perform_ sexy is when he’s on stage in front of a crowd of a million people, lights and sweat and the adrenaline of being _watched_ and adored by so many turning him into something animal. Harry’s a different person on stage, an insane, coked-up, whiskey-fueled rockstar, a fucking holographic _image_ of sexy, the teenage heartthrob badboy daymare he was written to play. 

But he’s not that boy in Louis’s arms, in Louis’s bed, on all fours between Louis’s knees trying to look coy. He’s just _Harry_ , desperate and hungry and graceless, built to be used and fucked and loved by Louis and Louis alone. He can’t perform sexy, not within an inch of his life, and Louis tells him so. “What are you even doing? Supposed to be giving _me_ a lap dance, not the _floor_. Or are you giving up, do you wanna just blow me?” 

Harry starts to pout again before he remembers he was told not to, and the look melts off his face abruptly. He sways closer, brushing his cheek against Louis’s knee subserviently, looking up at him through his lashes. “Just…thought it would be easier if I started like this,” he explains, and Louis hisses as his cock twitches in response, a sluice of precum beading up over the curl of his fist because it’s fucking _hot_ that Harry needs this, needs to get on his knees to approach Louis, to channel sexiness. “You look good, love,” Louis says gently, combing his fingers through Harry’s mess of hair, tugging him gently by it. “Come up here on my lap, lemme see you move pretty for me,” he murmurs, and Harry kind of whimpers in response, standing gracelessly, climbing on, all pretense that this is a _dance_ forgotten. Louis loves that he keeps forgetting. “C’mon,” he urges, letting go of his own cock and smearing the slick of precum he’s collected up Harry’s thick shaft, gasping at the way it looks, the shine, the ache. Himself all over his boy. 

Harry whimpers again, pushing his cock up into Louis’s fist as he rolls his hips forward, bracing his hands on Louis’s shoulders and propping himself up, gyrating in time with the music. Louis wouldn’t call it a _dance_ , but it’s _something_ , and Harry keeps looking at him for approval, eyes flitting down to lock with Louis’s as he bucks and sways, fucking his hand all the while. “Good?” he asks at one point, and Louis shrugs noncommittally. 

“Okay,” he answers, letting go of Harry’s cock to watch him whine pitifully and chase the heat, losing his sense of rhythm entirely. “You have to _dance_ for me, baby, like, actually dance,” he clarifies, and Harry makes a frustrated sound, face crumpling as he sits back, putting his arms behind his head and rolling his abs, like he’s a fucking go-go dancer at a gay club, and Louis would laugh at the absurdity of it all, but Harry looks like he’s gonna _cry_ , and he doesn’t want to discourage him so much that he breaks, so he just stays silent, lip between his teeth and hands wandering up Harry’s taut stomach. 

“Better,” he says. He brushes his knuckles up the underside of Harry’s cock, both of them gasping as it flexes visibly. “So lovely.” 

Harry dips closer, grabbing the back of the chair as he curls down into Louis’s space, chest brushing his lips, and Louis is pitifully, woefully human, so all he can do is open his mouth, tongue swirling out against the fever of Harry’s skin to steal a taste of alcohol-sweat, all tang and sweet and salt. Harry crumples again, losing the rhythm and grinding his cock into Louis’s stomach, breath stuttering out helplessly as his dancing again devolves into stilted, self-indulgent bucks. 

He’s heavy and drunk, and Louis’s so hard he’s aching. Harry smells too good and looks too good, and Louis can be very, _very_ patient sometimes, but he has decided that he wants him _now_ , that any further humiliation on Harry’s part won’t be worth it when Louis wants him so bad, when Harry’s sweat tastes _so hot_. “Fucking hell,” Louis grumbles, shoving Harry off, all his weight and bulk so easy to push, to manipulate. Louis effortlessly manhandles Harry’s pliant body over to the bed, where he collapses, bouncing, eyes wide and green and bloodshot. 

In seconds, Louis is on him. 

“You’re _terrible_ , I’ll have to demonstrate for you what a real lap dance looks like some time, my _god_ ,” he grumbles, kneeing his way fiercely between Harry’s legs, getting him splayed, pinned like a butterfly on a cork board. “You want me to show you how it’s done? Tie you to this bed with your scarves and make you watch me? Or would you rather I fuck you?” Louis asks, voice firm, though the rest of him is shaking. 

“ _Fuck_ , Lou,” Harry slurs, eyes half-lidded black slits of nothing but pupil, chest heaving. He wouldn’t last if Louis tied him up and edged him--that’s a game best played sober--but he likes the way Harry falls apart at the suggestion, writhing under him on the bed, mouthing at the air for kisses, fingers, something to suck. “Fuck me,” Harry manages to say, spreading his legs further, giving Louis more room to grind teasingly against him. 

His cock is a violent red against the flesh of his abs, so fat and needy as it bobs in the air, and Louis wants to get it in his hand, wants to taste it. He froths up a mouthful of saliva and spits it out, letting it drip all thick and wet onto Harry’s shaft where both of their gazes are glued. His spit slides down Harry’s length, obscene and in slow motion, and Harry’s too moved by the sight to do anything but keen wordlessly, hips bucking up into the air, back arching. Louis ducks his chest and throws Harry’s legs over his shoulders, bearing down and bending Harry in half so that he can grind against his ass, fitting himself between the swell of his cheeks. “I think the point of a lap dance is to get the guy who’s getting danced on all worked up,” Louis explains breathlessly, fucking into Harry’s crack, so that his cock nudges up against his rim, catching without pushing _in_. Harry whines and tries to get a hand on himself, but all Louis has to say is _no_ for him to quit, eyes dark. “I think you just worked yourself up, babe.” 

“I didn’t work _you_ up?” Harry asks, thinking about pouting enough that the corner of his mouth twitches. Louis hikes him up off the bed, grinding against him _hard_ , forcing him to gasp, throw his head back. 

“What do you think?” Louis whispers, circling his hips, loving the sweat-sticky heat of Harry’s ass against him. He’s always so fucking _warm_ here, burning and soft and molten, and it drives Louis fucking crazy, makes him want to fold him in two and sink into him until they’re flush, joined. 

“You’re worked up,” Harry admits, eyes fluttering closed as he shifts his hips in Louis’s grip, “but I don’t think it was my dancing. Think it was how much I wanted you. Always want you, Lou, so, so badly.” 

“Mmmhmm, it was, love,” Louis agrees, palming down one of Harry’s thighs before he takes his cock in hand, pumping him once, twice, using the remaining slick of his own spit to lubricate the motion. “Want me so bad you lose your mind, and it’s so fucking sexy, Haz, so pretty,” he gasps, loving the easy slide of Harry’s foreskin over his shaft, the way he rolls his hips into the flick of Louis’s wrist so fluidly, how he grinds his ass against him at the same time. “You want me to fuck you like this? Want me to fill you up?” 

“ _Yes_ , yes, yes,” Harry babbles, unlocking his hands where they’re gripped in the sheets and grabbing his own thighs, spreading himself, steadying himself. “Please.” 

Louis is aching, hard enough that it hurts, drunk on the way Harry’s voice is shot and low and wrecked like this, drunk on the alcohol on his breath when he dips down and kisses him hard. He fucks his mouth open on his tongue, gagging him with it, making him cough and choke and drool as Louis pulls away, biting him once, _hard_ , on the neck before catching that swollen ruin of a mouth again. 

He blindly fumbles for the lube and condoms on the bedside table, making quick work of wrapping his own cock before coating his fingers and sinking one into Harry, who’s already soft and ready for him, groaning as he forces another one in alongside the first. He’s being rough and quick, but he fucked Harry last night, and he knows he likes it hard and careless when he’s looser like this, so that he can feel it, so that it burns. “Good?” he asks, crooking his fingers deliberately, heart clenching in desire as Harry cries out. 

“Please, want your cock,” Harry begs, calves tightening on Louis’s shoulders as he arches his back in anticipation, presenting himself. “Please, Lou.” 

Louis lines himself up, one arm wrapped tight around Harry’s thigh, keeping him steady and angled right as he eases his cock head in past the ring of muscle. Once he’s past that initial stretch, he grabs Harry’s other thigh and sinks the rest of the way in, eyes locked on the way Harry _just takes it_ , head thrown back, throat rippling, brow furrowed in bliss. There’s a flush moving all the way down his chest; Louis can count the beats of his heart in the wild flutter of his pulse, and he has done this maybe one million times, but he never gets used to it, over it. Harry is astounding, _designed_ to be broken open in exactly this way, and Louis is the one who gets to do it. 

“Love you so much,” Louis breathes, spreading his palms over Harry’s quads, wanting to feel as much of his skin as possible, from the inside out. He tilts his head and presses a messy kiss to the inside of his knee. “Just love you,” he repeats. 

“Love you back,” Harry slurs, rocking his hips, his ass so tight and hot and impossible around Louis, the most perfect thing to fuck. Louis fucks in and out of him a few times, slow and teasing, pulling out nearly all the way before slamming back in hard on the downstroke, watching Harry get desperate and impatient, reaching for him with clumsy hands. “Harder, please, want you hard,” he begs, then, “hurt me,” which undoes Louis _every time_ , makes him weak and trembly with _want_ , with love. 

He flattens Harry out on his back, presses his thighs to his chest so that he’s bent in half, and then he rams into him, pistoning in and out hard for a minute before his legs start to burn and he has to settle for just grinding _into_ Harry, circling his hips, deep and insistent so there’s no escape, no reprieve. Harry sobs, hands all over Louis’s back, nails down his spine, fists in his hair, _gagging_ for it, and Louis isn’t going to last, not with the sounds he’s making, the burnt honey-gold of his groans as they’re fucked out of him. He has to slow down because he wants Harry to come on his prick, wants to feel the frantic, out-of-control clench of his body as he tightens up and loses himself, so he peels off, settling back on his haunches and getting Harry’s cock in his hand. 

“Want you to come around me, baby, c’mon,” he breathes, tugging on Harry and rolling his hips, loving the tremor, the wince as Harry hears him. “Need me to make it hurt more?” 

“Please,” Harry growls, and Louis can _do that_ , knows the exact angles that are harder for Harry, that drag at his insides so they burn. He ducks under one of Harry’s legs without pulling out so Harry is partially on his side, twisted at the waist, yelping, and Louis holds him down by both of his calves pinned under one hand while he adjusts himself to the new position before fucking back into him deep. “Okay?” he asks, flicking his gaze to Harry through his own sweaty fringe, sliding his hand up Harry’s leg to his haunch, the curve of his ass. 

“So good,” Harry slurs, “so ready for you.” 

Louis doesn’t hold back then, doesn’t need to. He knows Harry can take him, can take _all_ of him, hollowed out as Louis pounds into him relentlessly, so hard there’s nothing but the resounding smack of skin to fill the room, punctuated by the occasional labored groan. 

Harry doesn’t come until Louis slides a hand over his shoulder and pins him to the bed by his throat, grip not tight enough to choke him but enough to constrict his breath for the time it takes him to tense, lock up, and shoot off into Louis’s other hand. “That’s it, baby,” Louis hisses in a voice that’s all breath, eyes screwing shut as Harry tenses up hard around his cock, the most perfect, private feeling, and with another two deep snaps of his hips, he’s coming inside him. 

Harry lets out the most animal sound when he does it, a hoarse, wheezing sob, limp as Louis finishes in two lazy pulses into the condom. “Fuuuck,” he whimpers pitifully as Louis pulls out, wrinkling his nose as he rolls the condom off and tosses it on the floor. “Did you…did you just throw your used condom onto the hotel carpet?” Harry murmurs eventually as Louis settles in beside him, kissing his sweaty hair, his red cheeks, his still frantic pulse. “S’disgusting.” 

Louis draws Harry up into his arms, holding him tight as they just breathe together, limbs twined up in a knotted mess.. “ _You_ can get it on your way to the shower,” Louis offers, flicking his hand idly through the air before sinking it wrist deep into Harry’s hair, which _still_ smells like perfume and alcohol and sweat, and now, sex. “Because you most _definitely_ need a shower before bed. M’not going to let you wake up hungover _and_ rank.” 

“Heeyyy,” Harry protests as he settles further into Louis, head pillowed on his chest, eyes already droopy. “Be nice,” he adds. Louis thinks he might let him sleep here for a moment, nod off in his arms while his own heart is slowing down, let their skin get sticky as Harry’s come cools into a crust adhering them together. There are worse fates, and Louis’s legs still ache, anyway. The shower can wait, and he’s about to say so when Harry asks, “So, ‘bout that lap dance. You said…said you’d show me how s’really done. Were you…will you? If I’m good?” Then he tilts back and gives Louis the most _shit-eating_ , suck-up grin he’s ever seen. Dimples and all. 

He rolls his eyes before kissing that absurd smile off Harry’s face, murmuring into the swollen plush of his mouth, “We’ll see.”


End file.
